🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀʀᴍᴀᴄ🌅
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ + ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ
ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ
ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ
ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ
ꜱᴜꜱᴘᴇɴꜱᴇ & ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
The city awoke slowly, still basking in the afterglow of the Singapore Grand Prix. Glittering remnants of the post-race celebration clung to every surface: confetti tucked between the seams of kerbstones, banners fluttering in the early breeze, champagne stains kissed into the concrete like the city had bled joy. The circuit’s bones remained—grandstands, temporary structures, and winding track barriers—but the magic had begun to fade, giving way to the reality of disassembly.
Yet amidst the clean-up crews and media vans rolling out, a different kind of operation was underway.
The Young family’s private men were still there; discreet, sharp-eyed, and relentless. Dressed in unbranded black tactical wear, they moved with the quiet precision of operatives trained not to be seen. For hours they scoured the outer corridors of the paddock, the shaded alleys behind hospitality units, and beneath every loading platform and storage area.
But the morning yielded nothing.
No sight of the boy.
No new photos.
No second message.
Just the buzz of the sun rising and the knowledge that somewhere, they had come painfully close… only to lose the trail again.
Cassius Young stood with his arms crossed beside a storage bay near the old grandstand exit, lips pressed in a grim line. The men around him were shaking their heads, murmuring into encrypted comms, tracing the signal again. Another dead end. The tracker pinged faintly yesterday, and now? Nothing.
He exhaled sharply, kicking a loose pebble across the pavement. “He was here,” he muttered. “The message, the necklace, the boy in the crowd, someone was taunting her. Taunting us.”
“Or warning us,” said Alaric from behind.
Cassius turned.
Alaric strode into view like a shadow spilling through light—impeccably dressed, but with sleeves rolled, expression dark, eyes sweeping the facility with clinical precision. He wasn’t frustrated. Alaric never was. He was sharpening.
“You think this was a plant?” Cassius asked, stepping closer.
“I think it was deliberate,” Alaric murmured. “And I think we’re being watched. This isn’t random. We’re playing someone’s game.”
He gestured to the lead agent beside him and walked with purpose into the lower-level hallways beneath the track’s media centre, a place few people bothered to check. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The corridors were cool, sterile, filled with the scent of oil and old concrete.
It was here, among half-packed crates and abandoned race logistics, that Alaric’s eye landed on it.
A clipboard. Left on the floor, near a ventilation shaft behind the catering service hall.
Not the clipboard itself that drew his interest, but the paper half-tucked beneath it. Scribbled over in faded graphite were a series of half-legible notations. At first glance, just numbers. But Alaric saw the pattern immediately.
He knelt down, pulled on his gloves, and retrieved the page. His gaze narrowed.
“Cassius,” he called out sharply. “Look at this.”
Cassius strode over, crouching beside him. He peered at the page, brow furrowed. “It’s a code.”
“More than that,” Alaric replied. “It’s a route.”
Indeed, between the numbers were arrows, faint but clear if you knew what to look for. It wasn’t written in words. It was a movement diagram. A path. Markings that could only make sense to someone who knew the track’s underbelly.
A route through the old service tunnels.
Alaric stood. “Someone walked the boy through here.”
He turned to the men behind him. “Search the ventilation shafts, every door that connects to the service line. I want CCTV from yesterday morning through this very minute, unofficial cameras too. I don’t care if it’s hotel staff or race engineers. Pull every angle.”
And the team dispersed with swift obedience.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Elsewhere in the paddock, whispers were spreading.
Strange men had been seen combing the periphery. Not FIA, not team engineers. Unmarked cars had rolled in that morning. Even McLaren staff, normally immune to rumour, were murmuring beneath their breath.
Who were these people?
Why were they still here?
When Lando arrived for a scheduled debrief and sponsor obligation, he was met with tight-lipped glances from his own PR team. The corridor outside the media room was thick with tension, as though someone had whispered a secret that hadn’t yet reached his ears.
He ducked through the security line and stopped short.
There, standing at the far end of the hospitality corridor, was Alaric Young.
Again.
Lando blinked, brow furrowing. “What the hell is going on…”
Alaric noticed him, but didn’t move. He was speaking to two of his men, issuing instructions in crisp, low tones. His presence here yesterday could’ve been brushed off as familial support. Today, it felt like a message.
Lando moved closer.
“Back again?” he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.
Alaric looked up, expression unreadable. “Told you. Family.”
“You don’t look like you’re here for champagne.”
Cassius appeared from the side, his gaze level, cool. “And you don’t look like someone who should be asking questions.”
Lando’s eyes narrowed. “Is something going on with (Y/n)?”
Alaric tilted his head ever so slightly. “If there were, it would be her choice to tell you.”
“But you’re here, poking around the garages and tunnels,” Lando pushed. “You’re investigating something. Just tell me—”
Cassius stepped forward. “If we told you, you wouldn’t be able to un-know it. So, think very carefully before you ask again.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was a boundary.
Alaric held up a hand. “That’s enough.”
Then, to Lando: “We’re here for our sister. And that’s all you need to understand.”
Lando watched them both, jaw tight. “You think I wouldn’t want to help her?”
Alaric didn’t blink. “You had your chance.” (Alarwynn: OHHHHH SHIII— sorry, sorry, um, I'll get back to the story. But seriously, bro, he did try a lot of times.)
And then, without another word, the brothers turned and disappeared through the hallway like two dark knives slicing through the paddock’s artificial calm.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Back beneath the track’s foundations, the team found what they were looking for.
Near the ventilation access behind the lower-level media room, wedged deep between two utility panels, was a candy wrapper, innocuous, but out of place.
It was a European brand no longer sold in Asia. A chocolate that had once been Leo’s favourite, he used to steal them from Lando’s hands.
Cassius turned it over in his gloved hand, brow furrowing. “This brand pulled out of the region four years ago.”
“Someone had to bring it with them,” Alaric said. “Someone close.”
It was a crumb.
But enough to set everything in motion.
The next clue came fast.
Just beyond the exit to the tunnels, near a shuttered maintenance shed, one of the men found scratch marks in the soil. Kneeling down, he spotted it: a piece of string. Fine, green, nylon.
It matched the safety bracelet Leo had worn as a toddler, issued by the Norrises' private security when they still lived in Monaco.
Alaric stepped forward, examining the path, the layout, the shadows.
He turned to Cassius.
“They brought him through here.”
“They watched the race. With him,” Cassius added.
Alaric nodded grimly. “And they left us clues. Not because they made a mistake… but because they want us to follow.”
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Meanwhile, in the quiet of her room at the Young estate, (Y/n) sat at the edge of the chaise beneath the tall windows, the sheer drapes fluttering faintly from the sea breeze drifting in. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, a façade of serenity carved carefully onto her face. But inside, a war waged between fear, hope, and something even more dangerous, belief.
Her mother sat nearby in the reading chair, a half-knitted scarf resting on her lap, needles forgotten as she watched her daughter with quiet concern.
Then, the phone buzzed.
Once. Twice. A third time.
The vibrations were sharp, deliberate, like knocks against her ribs.
(Y/n) reached for the device with a hand that didn’t tremble, but only just. Her eyes flicked to the screen.
From Alaric: We have a route. He was here. Today. Follow our lead, but do not leave alone.
Her breath caught in her throat, a subtle, sharp intake that barely moved her shoulders. But her mother noticed. She always did.
“What is it?” she asked gently, setting the knitting aside.
(Y/n) hesitated for a heartbeat, then forced a soft smile. “Just a message from Alaric.”
Her mother’s brow furrowed, not at the words, but at the weight in her daughter’s voice. She stood and crossed the room, placing a hand on (Y/n)’s shoulder, a steady, maternal warmth that felt like shelter.
“Has something happened?”
(Y/n) shook her head faintly. “Not yet. But… soon.”
She didn’t say it aloud. She couldn’t. Not until they were certain.
But Leo had been there.
In the paddock.
Walking the same ground she had walked.
Breathing the same air.
Watching the same race.
He had been so close.
And now... the chase had truly begun.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
That night, long after the sun dipped behind Singapore’s skyline, a private meeting was held in a penthouse suite above one of the circuit’s sponsor hotels.
Inside: Alaric. Cassius. (Y/n).
The clues were laid out across the table; photo prints, maps, the bracelet string, the candy wrapper, the route scribbles. A pattern began to emerge.
“Whoever it is,” Cassius said, tapping one corner of the map, “they know how to blend. No cameras picked them up directly, which means they’re trained or experienced. Possibly military.”
“But not careful enough to avoid the tracker,” Alaric added. “That ping was deliberate. They wanted us to see him.”
(Y/n)’s voice was quiet, but sharp. “So, what do they want?”
Cassius and Alaric exchanged a look.
“Either leverage,” said Cassius. “Or closure.”
“And we’re going to find out which,” Alaric finished.
(Y/n) reached for the photo again, Leo’s photo. She traced his outline with a fingertip, every bone in her body aching.
“I want him home,” she whispered.
Alaric nodded. “And we’ll get him there.”
But even as he said the words, his eyes darkened.
Because whoever had taken Leo hadn’t made a mistake.
They had made a move.
To be continued...
🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇɪʟ🌅
📝 Note from the Author: The Young siblings have officially entered their billionaire detective era (YASSS like 🕵🏻♂️🔎 GUVSYUBVJNS). Cassius is ready to kick down doors, Alaric is connecting red strings on a conspiracy board somewhere, and Lando... oh well Lando is approximately one clue away from becoming an unpaid private investigator HAHAHAHAHA. Meanwhile, Leo continues to be the most difficult hide-and-seek champion in this entire story.
ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ: ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟ-ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇꜱ, ᴀʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ, ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ. ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ɪɴᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴄɪᴇꜱ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴜʟᴀ 1, ᴍᴏɴᴀᴄᴏ, ꜱɪɴɢᴀᴘᴏʀᴇ, ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴅᴜʀᴇꜱ, ɪɴᴠᴇꜱᴛɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀʟ ɪɴᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴜᴀʟꜱ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ.
